


Safe Hands

by Fire_Sign



Series: Phrack Fucking Fridays [30]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Prompt Fic, pff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 04:04:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18358253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: A PFF from the prompt “I’ve got you.”





	Safe Hands

**Author's Note:**

> A few weeks ago I solicited fic prompts from [this list](http://firesign23.tumblr.com/post/183324837247/drabble-list-2). Most of those are in Odd Socks, but this one worked well as a PFF so I'm posting it separately .

She’s not entirely certain when she realises that Jack is safe hands. It’s a hundred little moments, really, moments of subversions and moments of kindness and moments of humour, but whatever it is that finally convinces her is lost in a blur of memories. There’s a kiss, early on, entirely unexpected and probably ill-advised, but she didn’t initiate it and she certainly isn’t going to apologise, even if sometimes she dreams of his expression in the seconds after--a little dumbstruck, a little comforting, and more than a little aroused; it’s gone quickly though, replaced by a competence she can’t help but admire.

She knows that expression now though, knows what it means and sees it in so many lights. Over a nightcap, over a corpse, over a letter she so badly wants to believe. It surprises her every time, though she’s not entirely certain why; it’s absence, briefly, over a Marc Antony costume, almost (but not quite) makes her doubt what she’s thinking. It’s back soon after though, even though he’s as frantic as she is in the search for Jane. It stays in place for days, in fact, until she’s dancing away the shadows surrounded by her nearest and dearest--a laugh, a look, and she catches his eye, sees the message loud and clear in a small smile and a raised coupe of champagne.

A woman could grow accustomed to a message like that, and she very nearly does. From on stage, over the telephone, with a scarf around her neck. She thinks he might kiss her at the last, tries not to wonder why, precisely, she’s waiting for him to make the move. She is a woman used to getting what she wants, but not without a price--this one is not a price she is willing to pay. And then a bad telephone line nearly demands she does. 

She pretends it is fine, that the loss of him doesn’t affect her at all, and convinces everyone but herself. She doesn’t need him, even now. She doesn’t need his friendship and his wit and that push to be better, do better; she’s quite good by herself, thank you very much. But she searches his eyes when she sees him again, and what she finds lacking hurts. 

The telephone call from Maiden Creek is new; she’s never been uncertain, before, that he would come when she asks it. He always has, but things are still strained after The Estrangement, and her message really was terribly cryptic. He does though, arriving just in time and exerting authority she did not have; his expression when he comes to her though, his eyes soft and careful as he scans her for injuries… the relief spills from her, and she doesn’t regret it, and she won’t doubt it again.

She wishes she doesn’t have quite so many opportunities to test this, not when it endangers those she loves, but there’s never any real doubt. Not on the Pandarus, not in the Alps, not in a cavalcade of mysteries; she doesn’t need him to save her, but oh does she appreciate the offer as he looks at her, concern and wonderment mingling and the message underneath. 

“To the as yet unsung hero,” she toasts him days later, “who has saved me over and over again.”

It’s not enough, but it’s all that she can say. All that he is ready to hear. Six months and half a world away, waking in his arms, she wonders if that’s changed.

The morning sun is warm on her face, Jack’s breath tickling her ear, his body pressed against her back and his hand on her hip; she stirs and he follows, and his lips find the crook of her neck. Slow, lazy kisses, the glide of his hand over her stomach, the frisson of skin on skin. The slow circling of her breast with one finger, drawing a moan from her lips; he teases her so beautifully, every touch sparking pleasure. His other hand slips down, across her stomach, down her thigh; from this position she cannot touch him, not the way she wants to--she writhes slightly and his kiss turns into a reprimanding nip; her stomach bottoms out, her cunt throbbing with desire. He builds her orgasm slowly, and it should be galling how quickly he’s learnt to play her body, but it’s exquisitely lovely; she lets her eyes drift shut and gives herself over to the sensation, until time stretches beyond thought, until she mindlessly ruts against his fingers, until her body is humming. She is close, so close, a sweat breaking across her skin as she hangs on the edge, his fingers pumping in and out at just the right speed, just the right angle. Her hips rock and a whine escapes her lips, because it’s not quite enough to go over the edge.

He nibbles at the lobe of her ear, blows softly against it to drive her even higher. It’s too much and she whines again, certain she’ll be stuck here forever, hanging onto the precipice but unable to let go. 

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his hands soft, safe. A reminder, a promise.

She falls.


End file.
